It was her favorite time of the day: shoebox time.
It may seem a little bizarre, but it's true. My daughter loves going through my big, old shoe boxes of memories and stuff I could careless about now, but was a big deal when I was her age.
She and I have been going through my old shoe boxes since she was about five, and now she's almost fourteen.
She's a curious fourteen-year-old, but a smart one for her age.
At about seven, she'd been done with her homework, considering she got in done at study hall, took a shower, and I'd do her hair while she looked through my memories.
We'd bounce on my bed, both of us in pajamas, laughing at the goofy pictures, or crying at the sad journal entries.
I'd had numerous shoe boxes in my closet, stacked to the ceiling practically, filled with my old teenage days, even though in reality they'd only been practically only a few years ago.
I'm thirty-three now.
I'd explain-
"Hey, Mom, what's this?" she asked me, her brown eyes blinking as her blonde hair was awaiting to be combed.
In her hands was a frame, with a delicate piece of paper neatly placed in it. She seemed totally clueless; she knew what it was. She was just curious as to whose was it.
"That's your birth certificate, sweetie," I said, removing it from her hands to read the data.
I blinked my eyes a few times, and turned on the lamp. I could now clearly read, and I cleared my throat as her eyes were gleaming.
"Sophia Miley, seven pounds, five ounces, 23 inches long."
She peered over next to me, examining the birth document. Please, don't say it, please...
"You forgot to read my last name, Mom," she said, giving me a glare. I chuckled nervously.
"Don't you have to be in bed, now?" I asked.
"It's Friday, Mom," she said, getting annoyed. I sighed.
"Sophia Miley Oken," I said, glancing in the other direction. She looked over at me.
"What's wrong, Mom?" she asked me.
"Nothing," I replied.
"Was he a... bad man?" she asked me.
"Not in the least bit, sweetheart."
"Then why isn't he here?" she asked me, "If he's not a bad man, then why'd he leave us? Like I hear you screaming to Aunt Miley before I enter the apartment."
"Because, I'm just mad, Sophie, I'm upset." I started prying the shoebox from my daughter's hands, her tight grip rejecting my light, trying-not-to-be pushy pull.
"No," she said, muttering under her breath.
"Fine," I said, hopping off the bed, leaving my daughter propped on my bed. I'd slammed the door before I'd realized what I'd actually done. My teenage daughter, who could be out with her friends talking about cute boys and boy bands stays in with her mother just to look at how much fun I had.
I decided to leave her alone for now and let the both of us cool down before I questioned where Miley was. She said that she was going out for a little while with Jake, but I expected her to be home by now.
Great, now I'm acting like a parent for my best friend.
I examined the ring on my right hand's ring finger. It wasn't in the right place. So what? If he decides to now visit his wife and daughter in over twelve years, it's his loss.
And Sophia's.
I know I needed to make better choices, but for now, I'm going to let the shoe boxes tell the story with me.
I'm Lillian Truscott-Oken.
